In this Pride Week episode of MWM, we dive into the opulent and complicated life of one of the highest paid pianist-entertainers of the 20th century: Liberace.

 

This is among my favourite moments in television history. Officer Judy and Liberace on Smothers Brothers. Check it.

 

Now, Liberace didn't start out playing candelabra-adorned concert grands in sequined jackets. He came from modest means. Born in Wisconsin of an Italian father and Polish mother, his proclivity for piano playing was noticed early. A sensitive soul, he was more drawn to making music and cooking with his mother than playing outside with the other boys in the neighbourhood. It certainly paid off.

Liberace wasn't a pianist, he was a consummate entertainer. After his 1939 debut playing Liszt with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, his trajectory bent to playing in New York night clubs, although he never completely abandoned classical music. His schtick was pop/classical fusion; winning audiences over with medleys and mashups, bringing humour and audience participation into his performances. By the early 1950s, his boundless charm had seduced a generation of women (and men and everything inbetween) through their television sets whose fervency is comparable to the fever pitched by the Beatles the following decade. 

At the pinnacle of his global fame, a British tabloid published an article alluding to Liberace's sexuality in a time when homosexual activity of any sort was still illegal in the United Kingdom. To save his reputation (and his freedom), he filed a libel suit against the paper and won. He won the largest settlement ever awarded in British legal history, in fact.

And herein lies the tragedy of Liberace's life.

The sensational nature of one's orientation when it lies outside of the blue/pink binary. I'm not just talking about bigoted stigma: to be gay was still a crime. Although he was earning more than any other international entertainer of his time and performing with the biggest names in the biz (including 'The King'), the immense pressure of maintaining an international career in a very socially conservative time was overwhelming.

He also played for several presidents. And the Queen.

If he wasn't permitted the freedom to love, he would indulge with his whole self in the public persona he embodied, this over-the-top alter ego he created.

Really, without the blazing trail of Liberace, would Elvis have started wearing those amazing costumes? Would we have the same Elton John? What about Freddie Mercury?

One thing, however, was always evident: his generosity of spirit. The man cared that people felt cared for. He needed to care for people. For his audience. To indulge them.

Perhaps it was his notoriously hyper-opulent lifestyle, his fondness for collecting fine things, that helped him to cope with the impossibility of a publicly acceptable partnership or familial inheritor of his legacy. In lieu, he opened a museum in a Las Vegas suburb and started a foundation offering scholarships to young performers. Unfortuniately, the museum closed in 2010, the foundation went dry the next year.

In the last years of his life, he was dragged through a very public palimony suit, having to defend himself against both public allegation and his own compounded insecurities surrounding his orientation and private life.

But then, a generation who grew up listening to their parents' Liberace albums adopted him as their queer icon; setting attendance records at Radio City Music Hall in 1986 by luring fans old and new into the spectacular world of "Mr. Showmanship".

Until his death in February of 1987, Liberace and those closest to him continued to publicly deny allegations he was gay. An opportunistic county coroner looking for his 15 minutes of fame was set on exposing Liberace's darkest secret: that he died of AIDS related complications. Just over a year before, Rock Hudson's death had shaken the world bringing the disease to the fore of popular culture and giving it a face. And, like Hudson, these parts of himself Liberace had tried so desperately to keep from his audience for his entire career were catapulted into the spotlight.

In 2000, the BBC released Liberace: Too Much of a Good Thing is Wonderful. Directed by Hamish Mykura, this (sensational) portrait takes us from Mr. Showmanship's earliest arrival through the height of his fame, the depths of his personal scandals, and the strength of his will to perform until his last days. Watch it below:

 

In 2013, Liberace experienced a posthumous resurgence in popularity with the release of the film Behind the Candelabra, directed by Stephen Soderberg and featuring Michael Douglas as Liberace and Matt Damon as his last lover, Scott Thorson. I haven't seen it yet, but I have just added it to my Pride week watching list. Here's the trailer:

 

Tune in next week for another episode of Mid-week Musicology here on Classic107.com!